Wonderfully Irregular
by selizabethharrisburg
Summary: Sherlock Holmes may be one of the toughest detectives around, but he's always had a soft spot for the best and the brightest of London's street urchins. A series of one-shots featuring several of the Baker Street Irregulars, following the canon of Doyle's original novels. **Reposted from my AO3 account, BuddingAuthor**
1. Prologue (The Makings of a Family)

**Prologue ("The Makings of a Family")**

He observed them, at least in the beginning, from afar. From afar first, and then up close.

Up close, as they went from being just a conglomeration of five London street urchins, all under the age of sixteen, and became arguably the most elite branch of the Scotland Yard detective force, in all but name, and a family, in all but blood.

Well, that wasn't quite true, that in the beginning they'd been nothing but a group of ragtag orphans. Even from the start they had been so much more than that. There were thousands of street kids in London—certainly hundreds in just a two-mile radius—and yet Holmes had handpicked the five of them. There was good reason for it, too. Even among the poorest of the poor in the slums of London, those five stood out.

The idea to create a team of elite children first struck Holmes many years before the first case the kids were eventually involved in. Children, particularly the bright ones, Holmes knew, had a way of seeing things adults missed, making simple what adults found complex. They had a way, too, of sneaking, of skulking in the shadows with their ears pricked, of seeing and examining and reporting. And so it seemed like a natural thing to create a team of children.

As soon as he had decided to move forward with that idea, he had narrowed it down quickly to twenty of the street urchins. Holmes had chosen the twenty quickly, and kept his eye on them. Those first children had been selected purely on aptitude, with little regard for character. Only their abilities went into consideration; and what abilities they were! Each of the twenty had remarkable skill in some department or another, be it memory, pickpocketing, sneaking, running, analytics, evasion, or one of dozens of others.

But as soon as it became time to evaluate the children's characters and situations and not just their raw abilities, it became clear that, for one reason or another, several of them were not fit for the job. There was the girl with asthma and the boy with the gimp leg. There was the girl who the street beggars knew too well, and the boy who actually had a home to return to at the end of the night, where he would be missed if he stayed out too late. The boy who was too gutsy, the girl who was too afraid, the boy who was too protective of his little brother: all unsuitable.

So the elimination game had begun. And slowly the numbers dwindled down from a score of children, to half that, to eight, then six, then five. And the five that remained at the end of the process had all been so exceptionally talented that Holmes never had any doubts about any of them.

There was the boy, first of all; the oldest of the group. With eyes as sharp as an eagle's and a memory that awed even Holmes, he had caught Holmes's eye from the beginning. Even before the detective moved onto Baker Street, when he still lived on Gloucester Place, he had noticed the boy. Ever since he was nine, the child had made it a pet project of his to learn as much about as many inhabitants of the city of London as he could. He could hide in the shadows well, too; and Holmes's eye always followed him, as he crouched down and listened and watched, and _learned_ about the people that lived on the street, _learned_ about their occupations, families, hobbies, strengths, weaknesses, grievances, failures, successes. Holmes watched as he had committed those facts to memory, and now had an internal file on the personal lives of almost five hundred Londoners to date.

The boy could _see_ , and _memorize_ , for sure. Holmes didn't think he could _observe_ yet, or _deduce_ , but they'd get there. His abilities had grown as he had aged, as well, and by the time he was thirteen, Holmes was confident he was an extremely promising young man.

So that had been Wiggins, who had been the elite among the elite. Holmes had been confident about him from the beginning.

Him, and the girl. The brown-haired girl. She hadn't been around when Wiggins was nine, but by the time he was eleven, the girl had completely assimilated into the city. Holmes had to be awed at how she did it. The transition was so gentle, so gradual, so well-done, that it impressed him.

She had light fingers, too. They called her Pockets, on the street. Her real name was Clarissa, but Holmes doubted anyone but himself, and her, knew it. She despised the name; of course she did. When you heard the name Clarissa, your mind didn't produce an image of a tomboy thirteen-year-old with pants cut off roughly below the knee and fingers lighter than air.

She was probably the most accomplished pickpocket on the street, of any age. She'd once swiped a gold wristwatch off of Sir Alexander Henderson, the First Baron Faringdon. That was by far her biggest prize, but she had stolen plenty more besides. She generally sold her winnings—if they could be called that—at a pawnshop, but never the same one. She alternated between dozens of different stores on opposite sides of the city, pulling the same routine. The girl was an extraordinarily talented young actress, and her go-to premise was that the item she was selling had been her dead grandmother's. With a lot of sniffling and some grief in her eyes, she could quickly get the pawnbrokers to be sympathetic, and drop any suspicion they might have had.

Pockets was one of two girls who eventually joined Holmes's team; the other was considerably younger. She had been just seven years old during the Jefferson Hope case, and she was the younger sister of another of Holmes's gang. Her name was Ash, and her brother's name was Tiny; one name was sarcasm, and one was not. Tiny had been five-foot-seven at age twelve.

Ash and Tiny had been on the verge of death when Holmes first spotted them. The detective had seen the boy, who had been ten at the time, flitting around and scrambling up drainpipes to search for tiny reservoirs of water. The detective had observed quietly as Tiny had filled an old bottle with about an inch of water, then disappeared back into the streets without taking so much as a sip.

His curiosity had been piqued, and he had followed the boy to a back alleyway, where he had seen her sister, on the verge of death. Holmes had set out a secretive test for them, while they were still unaware of his existence, and had been delighted to find that they had passed it with flying colors.

So there were four. The fifth was a smaller boy named Chen; eight when Watson first caught sight of him and "ten. Almost," as he put it, during the Hope case. Chen could _run_ ; that was the thing. Chen could take off like a wind and be two blocks away before you'd even had a chance to notice he was gone. And Chen was smart in a way that a lot of the street children weren't: He had a solid mechanical mind, a lust for knowledge about the way things worked, and a passion for inventing. Holmes didn't have much need for Self-Shining Shoes, as Chen called his latest prize (which, if the truth was to be told, didn't entirely work), but he was hopeful that the boy's logical and straightforward method of thinking could be applied, with practice, to detective work.

So yes; that had been Chen. And Ash and Tiny and Pockets, too. They were all indisputably elite, the best of the best.

But Wiggins was the best of the best of the best. Holmes had first spoken to him less than a month after moving into 221b Baker Street, and had subsequently given him about a month of private lessons in the morning concerning all manner of detective skills, before even reaching out to any of the other five. Wiggins could see and think perfectly fine, but he lacked one of the most valuable skills: how see how A, B, and C fit together, and not just that they existed. After a month of intensive mentoring, however, Wiggins had grown so much in that department that Holmes told him wryly that the lessons would have to stop, because then Wiggins's detective agency might start taking Holmes's customers.

After that, Holmes sent Wiggins out to recruit Pockets. Ash, Tiny, and Chen, he had spoken to himself. Pockets would be suspicious and wary, but would go with an unfamiliar street boy who approached her; the other three, not so much. Differing styles and personalities, to be sure; but Holmes had found that diversity, particularly diversity in terms of thinking and thought-processing, had not once been detrimental to a team. Nearly always, it was the exact opposite: entirely beneficial.

It had taken about two weeks for them to warm up to the concept of working _together_ , as a _team_ , but the shilling-every-two-days pay endeared them to the idea immediately, even if they didn't completely understand it. Holmes had known the pay would probably be the clincher, but he was delighted that all five of the children agreed.

At that point, Wiggins had been fourteen, Pockets had been thirteen, Tiny had been twelve, Chen had been nine, and Ash had been seven.

He gave them mundane assignments at first, working as a team and picking up little snippets of information from around the neighborhood. Tracking certain people and watching their every move; Pockets was exceptional at that, as was Ash, when she focused. Coupled with Wiggins's way of hanging onto every word and making connections based on the tiny bit that was dropped, in a few weeks, they put together a comprehensive database of hundreds of Londoners, a completely unique set from Wiggins's personal catalog. They discovered that Tiny and Chen could both draw well (Tiny excelled at sketches of living things, while Chen's speciality was sketching mechanical objects), and Holmes taught them all the basics of reading and writing.

Perhaps the most interesting exercise in those early days was when Holmes sent them out to spy on each other. He would generally give them their assignments privately, and would tell one child to watch a specific neighborhood or street, and tell the others to watch that child. The outcomes were always interesting in those games, and the children loved them. After that, they moved on to simulations, tracking and analyzing real Londoners who Holmes had spotted and deemed interesting for the children to follow.

As time passed, Holmes grew stricter with the bunch, though never really cold. They needed some sort of discipline if they were going to keep together and be useful, and he would demand professionalism and respect from all of them at all times. Still, though, he went out of his way to be kind to them, give them food if they were hungry, work with them all privately on their deductive skills. If they were living up to his expectations to be diligent and professional and hardworking, then they deserved the money and food so that they wouldn't starve to death.

It was September when Holmes had the first real use for them. A new case had popped up; later, Holmes would call it the Jefferson Hope case and Watson would call it A Study in Scarlet (he subsequently published a book under that title). The kids were all thrilled for their first "real" adventure—not to mention that their pay was doubled to a shilling a day.

It was during that case that they started to call themselves the Irregulars. Locally, the foot soldiers, and the policemen and the detectives too, were referred to as the city's Regulars. First their name for themselves was a joke, but then it became a true symbol of their identity. Holmes caught it out of the corner of his ear as he listened in on their conversation one day, and he had to admit it made him smile.

Ah, the Irregulars. The Baker Street Irregulars. They were all so wonderfully gifted in so very many ways. They always seemed to be having fun, whether it was during a case or not. In November Holmes witnessed the gradual transition from "friends" to "family", feeding each other, sharing water, making sure each of them had someplace warm to sleep at night. By December, they all hunkered down for bed together in what had been Ash's and Tiny's alleyway.

They were a group of detectives, yes. At their core, they were the Baker Street Irregulars, the most elite branch of the London crime-solving force. But they were more than that, too. They were siblings who would fight until the end of the earth to protect each other; and, Holmes was touched to note, to protect him too.

It was by Holmes's doing that they knew each other, yes. But it was by their own that they truly became a family.


	2. Just the First of Many

**"Just The First of Many"**

Wiggins darted through the streets of London, his feet flying over the pavement easily, the result of seven years' practice. This street had been the boy's main escape route since he was six years old and his family first moved to the city. He'd thought his father might learn by now, and find ways to cut off his escape, but _that_ never happened. His father wasn't all that bright, and when he was drunk—like now—his logical reasoning abilities were pretty much nonexistent.

So Wiggins was safe, at least for now. From his _father_ , that was. The London coppers were totally different story. None of them liked him—and _that_ was an understatement. He had a slight reputation around the Scotland Yard police officers—as big a reputation as any street urchin could have—due to his incredible evasion tactics, which none of the officers seemed to appreciate. They could have him in their sight one moment, and then have not a clue where he was the next. If a copper did manage to get his hands on Wiggins, then he was in for trouble; but they hardly ever came near enough to grab him. He, at least, saw to that much.

Wiggins would, of course, prefer to evade the coppers' sight entirely. But that wasn't very likely today, the boy thought, feeling his heart speed up slightly as he rounded a corner from Gloucester Place onto Marylebone Road and caught the telltale flash of blue of an officer's uniform. He just saw it out of the corner of his eye, probably about a hundred feet away on the other side of the road; but see it he did, and clenched his teeth. Pursing his lips and muttering a certain word that his mother—if she'd been alive—wouldn't have stood for under his breath, the boy shrank against the side of the buildings, maneuvering down the street against the wall, dodging and shoving past people, many of whom weren't too happy about a thirteen-year-old boy squeezing his way past without a word of apology. Wiggins felt several blows land against his back and skull from passers-by he'd annoyed, but he paid them little mind. None of them could hit nearly as hard as his father; he'd been conditioned to ignore a considerable amount of pain for a long time now.

Suddenly there was a rotten old wooden cart blocking his way; there was Mr. Smith again, trying to sell apples. Wiggins knew the man slept on the streets, generally in the area around Marylebone, and was sort-of friends with a little boy named Ed. Often he could be found selling apples, which Wiggins had seen him steal from a grocery shipment. Wiggins didn't know Mr. Smith very well, since he wasn't a permanent resident of any one street, but he saw him around a bit and so had learned a little about him.

Wiggins's mind raced furiously before coming up with a quick conclusion. Quickly darting over, the boy's small hand grabbed an apple from Smith's cart; then he ducked underneath the wheels and sprinted off the other way. Now, with any luck, Smith wouldn't notice, and neither would the coppers, and Wiggins would—

" _Wiggins!"_

He cursed. That damn copper, again! Davidson, his name was, or so Wiggins thought. Troublesome at best. Now? Potentially fatal. Not literally, of course. But if he caught Wiggins, the result would be juvenile detention or worse, and Wiggins was really not in the mood for those kind of shenanigans today. Escaping from a courtroom took a lot more effort than escaping on the street. That he knew from personal experience.

So now Wiggins took off, running full-tilt down the street, ducking under outstretched arms and scooting under legs. His breath was hard and heavy from exertion now, but it was not panicked. Not _yet_.

Up ahead, Wiggins could see the busy intersection where Marylebone met Baker Street. Fixing his eyes firmly on that crosswalk and setting his jaw, the thirteen-year-old made his way steadily forward, resolutely ignoring the sounds of Officer Davidson crashing through the crowd towards him.

Suddenly a tiny girl darted up in front of him; he jerked and tried to scamper away, but she blocked his escape. "The coppers are after you," she informed him, in a perfect Cockney accent.

Wiggins rolled his eyes. "You don't say." He pursed his lips and tried to push around her, but she moved determinedly in front of him. "Let me through!"

The girl shrugged. "I clean houses mostly, and it don't pay very well. I ain't ate in three days, y'know. I can't afford to be on the wrong side of the law. Not nows."

Wiggin felt his breath catch in his throat; now the panic set in. Officer Davidson was still coming closer, always in pursuit, and if he caught up…

Eyes flashing to the apple in his hand—a large red fruit that actually looked surprisingly fresh—Wiggins made a quick decision. He knelt down and stared hard into the black-haired girl's eyes. "Look, um—"

"Vivian," she supplied quickly. "That's my name."

"Okay, Vivian," Wiggins whispered hurriedly. "I'll give you the apple—and even two shillings for food—if you tell those coppers straight out you saw me run up Glentworth Street, okay? Got that?"

Vivian's eyes shined eagerly. "Glentworth," she repeated. "Got it." She held out her hand expectantly. With Officer Davidson crashing through the throng, Wiggins didn't have time to think, to read her eyes and see if she might be double-crossing him. He just had to run. Dropping the apple and the promised cash into the girl's grimy hands, he turned and sprinted away from her, leaving her to do whatever she was going to do.

Wiggins darted down the street towards Baker, his face slick with sweat. Just a few more dodges, a leap over a stray dog—suddenly a cuff on the ear from someone who didn't like the way he was getting in their way—and quickly down onto Baker Street.

Baker Street. It was much more familiar than Marylebone. Wiggins knew the street by heart, as well as all of its residents. He had for some time now; in fact, he knew some of the adults better than he thought they knew themselves.

When Wiggins was six years old and he and his father moved to London, the boy's eyes had glinted eagerly. "Someday," he breathed, "I want to know every person in this city." His father had clouted him on the ear and told him it was impossible.

But the thing was, Wiggins had an astonishing memory and a terrific eye for detail. And ever since his father had told him that it was impossible, he'd been on a quest to learn as much about as many of the city's residents as humanely possible.

He went street by street, spending months observing all of the residents from quiet perches in alleyways or behind trashcans. Baker Street had been one of his most recent projects, and one of his longest. It was a long street, with hundreds of residents; and while Wiggins knew the names and occupations of all of them, he only knew a tiny section of the block on a level he considered "personal".

Wiggins was approaching that section of the block now; it ran from about 200 Baker Street to 250 Baker Street. Every one of those residents, he knew inside and out: where they worked, what their hobbies were, what their children's names were, how old the kids were. On a few rare occasions, he'd even managed to make predictions about residents based on tiny scraps of evidence, and they'd turned out to be right.

Wiggins darted onto Baker and sprinted past the quieter houses, the 150s and 180s, before finally entering the section of the block he knew best. He darted around a girl—the name Willow flashed in his mind, accompanied by basic statistics—and entered the busier section of the block.

Officer Davidson seemed to be gone, but there were a couple of coppers posted up and down Baker Street, and Wiggins didn't want to run into any of them. Probably about seven out of ten officers who patrolled this area of the city knew his face, and he didn't want to run that risk.

Too late. It just wasn't his day. The motion of him jostling through the crowd caught one officer's attention, and he spun, calling out for Wiggins to stop. Wiggins cursed and darted forward, sprinting through the streets as the chase from just a few minutes before repeated itself. And he was hurriedly glancing over his shoulder at just the wrong moment, and suddenly the boy ran smack into a man who was coming down the steps, having just closed the door to 221b Baker Street.

Suddenly the man's hand was tight on Wiggins's shoulder, and the boy gasped from the shock. _Deep breaths_ , he reminded himself. _Calm. In control. That's how you come out ahead._

Wiggins looked up at the man, running through everything he knew about him. Name, age, occupation. Hobbies, talents, weaknesses—not that there were many of the latter. Thought processes, tendencies. Wiggins knew the man had moved onto Baker Street only recently; previously, he'd resided on Glentworth, and Wiggins had observed him from there.

Wiggins's breath was coming hard and fast, but he forced himself to calm down. _Calm the hell down._ If he didn't want to be turned over to the coppers, he'd get through this on sheer wit alone.

Of course, if you were planning a battle of the wits, there was nobody worse to tangle with than this man. Whip-smart, with a genius analytical side and an ability to read an entire situation in just one glance. Wiggins's only chance was to catch him off-guard. Of course, if he did surprise the man, it wouldn't show in his face, or his eyes, but Wiggins thought he would be able to tell.

So he smiled up at the man, trying to hide his nervousness. "Good day, Mr. Holmes."

And then the detective completely shocked him. "Well, hello, Wiggins. I've been meaning to speak to you for some time."

Wiggins's jaw dropped; he couldn't help it. Holmes smiled wanly. "You're not the only one who keeps a record of everyone who lives near you." Holmes started to lead a stunned Wiggins up the steps towards 221b; "Come along inside; there's something I've been wanting to discuss with you."

"Just a minute, Mr. Holmes." Suddenly an unfriendly, unwelcome voice came from behind the pair. Wiggins spun on his heel; Holmes turned around calmly. Standing there was a copper, not smiling.

"That there is the Wiggins boy," the officer said, needlessly.

"Indeed," Holmes said calmly, without adding anything else.

The officer, whose brass nameplate read _Jenkins_ , stared at him disbelieving. "And," he prompted, after an awkward moment of silence, "he is a thief."

"Really," Holmes said without much interest, as Wiggins felt shame flood him. He didn't care so much about the thievery, but being called out for it in front of the great detective… that wasn't exactly a position he wanted to be in.

"Really," the bobby confirmed, growing angry. "Just today, another officer of the force saw him take an apple from a man's cart."

"Is that so?" Holmes said carelessly. He took a shilling from his pocket and tossed it, without warning, to the bobby, who fumbled it, dropped it, and, with burning cheeks, bent to pick it up. "That should cover the fruit," Holmes told the bobby. "Now, if you have no further complaints—"

"I have plenty more complains!" growled Jenkins. "He's a street rat and a thief!"

"Thievery is not tolerated under London law, Officer, but homelessness most certainly is. Now I believe the boy's stolen goods have been accounted for, and so I would like to respectfully request that you leave this boy alone."

Unable to come up with a good reason why Wiggins himself should be prosecuted, Jenkins quickly changed tactics. "Well, you can't deny that this boy is that criminal Wiggins's son," he said. "And any child of that despicable man is, in my view, a prosecutable criminal as well. Last night, you know, he stole a pint of whiskey from a pub."

"Oh, I'm sure he did, Officer," Holmes said, keeping a hand on Wiggins's young shoulder. "He's quite drunk right now, as a matter of fact." He paused. "As I see it, Jenkins, you have nothing more to add. I would like to respectfully bid you _adieu_ ; until next time." He turned and pushed open the door of 221b, before suddenly spinning back and adding, "Oh. And may I encourage you to keep working on your writing, Officer? I can see you've been busy with it for quite a while." Smiling at the officer's astonished face, Holmes led Wiggins inside the house and closed and locked the doors.

"Well. Sometimes those officers think they have significantly more authority in this city than they do, Wiggins, as I'm sure you know." He paused and gestured to an armchair. "Please sit down; I've been meaning to talk to you."

Wiggins's head was spinning. In the last five minutes, he'd bribed a girl and escaped a bobby on Marylebone, ran into another copper on Baker, met Sherlock Holmes, tried to outwit him, learned that the detective somehow knew his name and who his father was, and been escorted into the great detective's house. There were so many questions flying around Wiggins's brain at the moment, and the only one he could stutter out was the one at the top.

"How did you know he was a writer?"

Holmes smiled. "There were smudges on the index finger, middle finger, and pinkie of his right hand; those are a dead giveaway. It's common to see those smudges, but not so common to know what they mean. They're ink stains, from a fountain pen: on the middle finger and index finger, they come from leaking ink; on the pinkie they come from slightly rubbing against ink on the page that has not completely dried. Only writers have those ink smudges on their fingers, but all writers have them."

Wiggins's jaw dropped. "You knew all that from…." Slowly his voice trailed off as the awe sit in. Then, suddenly, his face jerked up, and he stared Watson in the eye. "And how did you know about _me_?"

Holmes smiled again, but this time it was softer, filled with something like— _pride_?—and maybe even a touch of something that slightly resembled love. "I've been watching you, Wiggins. You, and a very few others. There are hundreds of street urchins in this part of London, and most of them are of no importance, but you—you and just a few others—stand out. And you especially, even among them. You have an exceptional memory, Wiggins, and very talented eyes. And more than that, you're always purposeful; that stands out on the street." He paused. "Your pattern for when you come to Baker Street—yes, I've noticed it's a pattern—very cleverly designed, I might add. It appears completely random at first sight; I had to track your movements for nearly a week before I was confident about what your system was."

Wiggins's jaw dropped. "It took me _two months_ to come up with a system that seemed random. It's not even really a pattern! It relies on—"

"Weather? Yes, to a certain degree, it does. You rely partially on the clouds to determine how many days you skip visits; that way, the pattern is never repeated exactly."

"How _the hell—_ "

"You may have good eyes, Wiggins, but I have thirty years' more experience. And good eyes," he told the boy, his smile gone, "are nothing without good training." Holmes paused. "You have learned to _see,_ but not to _observe_. That is an exceedingly common ailment, and few people know—or care—about the difference between the two."

Wiggins swallowed. "What _is_ the difference? I feel like I… _do_ observe things, and…"

Holmes cut him off with another smile. "This is an old trick, Wiggins, and one exceedingly common in defining the difference." He paused, then fixed a piercing gaze on the boy. "Your house has two stories."

Slightly thrown, Wiggins nevertheless said, "Yes, sir."

"And there is a staircase leading from one floor to the other."

"Yes."

"How many stairs are on that staircase?"

Wiggins was thrown. "Um—at a guess, sir? I'd say twenty."

Holmes's smile widened, but in a kindly way. "There you have it, Wiggins. You have seen, but you have not observed." He tilted his head sympathetically. "That's an old trick; you're hardly the first one to not know. If you had observed, however, you would know that your staircase has eighteen steps."

For what felt like the twentieth time, Wiggins's mouth fell open. "How in the world do you know that?"

Holmes smiled wanly. "There was no deductive work involved in that at all, Wiggins. I am simply familiar with the building codes and the architecture from the 1810s, when your house was built."

" _I_ didn't even know my house was built in 1810!"

"See, there it is again, Wiggins. You have seen, yet not observed. It was, in fact, built in 1812. There is a small note carved into the cement of your sidewalk, which is original to the block; that part is apparent to anyone who is familiar with even a very rudimentary level of masonry."

Wiggins felt his heart sink. He had been so proud of himself for what he'd thought was an incredible achievement: his cataloging of hundreds of his London neighbors. But suddenly that seemed deathly pale in comparison to what Holmes could do right off the bat.

Slowly, guardedly, he tested the waters again. "What else do you know about me?"

"I know your father is drunk today," the detective said softly. "That caught you by surprise. You came up Ivor Place on your way here today, which you only do when your father is intoxicated, which is usually Saturday nights. On other times, you come by Melcombe Street, near Dorset Square."

Holmes noted the boy's look of astonishment and quickly explained. "There is a factory on Ivor, which burns coal. You have coal dust on your shoes when you use Ivor Place. That dust is absent when you come by Melcombe."

Wiggins's gaze shot to his shoes, without a conscious thought. Sure enough, there was blackened coal dust settled on his falling-apart sneakers. He gaped, then looked up at Holmes.

"You figured out that my father's drunk because there's _dust on my shoes_?"

Holmes smiled gently. "I did. And in time, I believe you will be able to do the same."

Wiggins just stared at him. "How?" he asked, his voiced layered with incredulity.

Holmes sighed. "You have good eyes and an exceptional memory, Wiggins. We've already established those facts. You have no problem seeing, and remembering, A, B, and C. What matters is seeing what's hidden inside A, B, and C, and how they fit together. Some people are born with a knack for that, but it can also be learned. And I think you can learn it quickly, with some intensive work."

Wiggins looked suspiciously at the detective. "What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting that I give you private lessons in deduction and investigation, so that you can learn how to do some of my abilities. This is in exchange for any detective or espionage work I—"

"Espionage?"

"Spying," Holmes clarified. "I give you these lessons in exchange for you completing any detective or espionage work I may need done. After the lessons conclude, for any services I may need, you will receive compensation."

" _Comp_ —?"

"Money."

Wiggins looked at the detective guardedly. "What… This is part of a bigger plan, Mr. Holmes. I can tell. You wouldn't—you need me to learn this deduction stuff for a reason. You're planning something."

Holmes's smiled widened. "Very acute, Wiggins." He paused. "As you know, I am a detective. And I've learned that children can be very helpful in the practice. For years I have wanted to assemble a group of children to help me; and I've been watching London's street kids. I think you would be an excellent leader of that group."

The boy's eyes widened. " _Me_? You think I could…" He trailed off as the detective's words sunk in and more questions floated to the top of his brain.

Holmes answered the queries before Wiggins could even ask them. "It's often helpful, in many of my cases," he said, "to have a set of eyes on the street. Or multiple sets of eyes. I have a list of five children whom I would like to employ. Of those five, you are the clear leader." He paused. "You have several of the most invaluable skills on the street and in detective work. Your capabilities are not perfect; far from it. But with some training, we can make you one of the brightest detectives in the city. That's the role this team of mine needs. We need a bright young mind who still had the physical capabilities of a child but who can reason like an adult. That is you, Wiggins. With proper training, you can learn exceptional deductive abilities; and when the time comes to meet the rest of our team, I am confident that you can pass many of the skills you will have learned onto them."

Wiggins's eyes shone brightly. "And who… who are the others?"

"That's not for you to know, not yet," Holmes said gently. "However, do know that you are the oldest, if only by a slight margin. There is a girl who is thirteen as well. The youngest is seven, but her older brother is twelve."

"That… that's four. That leaves someone out."

"Indeed. He is nine. But none of this is your concern now, Wiggins. You'll meet them all presently."

Wiggins looked up, slightly shyly, into Holmes's eyes. "And me… I mean… you'll really… you'll really teach me, right? You're not just teasing?"

Holmes smiled. "I'll really teach you, Wiggins. Provided you're respectful and professional and hardworking." He paused. "I have high hopes for you, Wiggins. Don't let me down."

* * *

Holmes stood with Wiggins by the side of a dirt road just outside Trafalgar Square, about two weeks after meeting for the first time. It was about ten in the morning, and it had rained the night before. The mud had dried but not hardened, and there were impressions in the dirt from the morning's activities.

Holmes turned to look slightly at Wiggins. "Look at the ground," he instructed. "Tell me what you see."

"Well…" Wiggins knelt down to get a closer look at the muddy dirt. "There was a carriage here, early, and—"

"How do you know it was early?"

"Because all the other tracks are on top of it," said Wiggins, earning him a proud smile and a "Very good" from Holmes. Wiggins grinned.

"It… um, it was a cab. A taxi, that somebody had hired. The wheels are too close together for it to have been a gentleman's private carriage." He glanced up at the detective for his approval.

"That is entirely correct," Holmes said, nodding. "What else can you tell about the cab?"

"Um… I… about that cab? I don't see anything else…"

Now Holmes had bent down too, and was pointing something out in the mud. "Look there," he said softly, gesturing at the imprints of a horse's hooves that went with the carriage.

"One horse," Wiggins said promptly.

"Well, yes, that is correct," acknowledged Holmes, "but you can, in fact, tell much more than that." He pointed. "See how the left hind print is much clearer than the others? What does this tell you?"

"I… um…"

"Why would a horse's footprint be particularly clear, or particularly dull? What might affect clarity?"

"Um… pressure, maybe? If the horse had a bad leg and it was cutting into the ground harder?"

"Now, what is wrong with the hypothesis that this cab, a public taxi, was being pulled by a horse with a bad leg?"

"The city wouldn't do that," admitted Wiggins. "It wouldn't be very efficient."

"Correct. Now, what else might affect the clarity of a horse's footprint?"

"I…"

" _Think_ , Wiggins. What causes the imprint?"

"I… the hoof."

"And what is set on a horse's hoof?"

"The shoe." Suddenly Wiggins's face brightened. " _Oh!_ If the horse had one new shoe, that would make that one leg's hoofprint clearer!"

"Good." Holmes looked at him. "These are the kind of thought processes that you have to learn to do internally—without help—and nearly instantaneously. This is the basis of deductive reasoning, right here." He straightened. "Now, tell me more about who else came down this road after the carriage."

Wiggins pursed his lips. "After that, it was… a person… with a peg leg, I think? Is that a peg leg?" He pointed to a mark in the dirt.

Holmes smiled gently. "That person has a crutch, actually."

"How can you tell?"

"First you tell me whether the person was male or female, then I'll explain to you."

Wiggins paused, before hesitantly saying, "Female."

"Correct; you're getting better. It was a woman with a gimp left leg who used a crutch to assist her in getting around. You can see the slight track of her useless foot in the dirt here—she wasn't standing on it, but it was dragging in the road behind her. You can tell that this mark is from a crutch, and not a peg leg, because it is a wider circle. Peg legs are thicker at the top, but then taper down to a smaller circle at the end that touches the ground, while crutches retain their diameter from top to bottom."

Wiggins nodded slowly. "That makes sense," he admitted, a bit ruefully but also duly impressed.

Holmes nodded slightly. "It does indeed. Now tell me more about the next party who walked down this road."

The pair, man and boy, went on like that for a good half-hour, examining impressions in the mud and analyzing nearly a dozen Londoners based on their footsteps and the imprints of their carriage's wheels. By the time they were done, Wiggins's back was sore from bending so far over the mud, but he was happy: Holmes had complimented him and told him he was doing well. As for now, that was all the pay Wiggins needed.

In the afternoons, after the boy's detective lessons, Holmes often asked Wiggins to go out and watch certain streets or certain people, then report back to him. Wiggins suspected that very little of this was actually helpful information for Holmes, and was more likely just getting the boy integrated into the feeling of being a London detective. But Wiggins enjoyed the work nonetheless, and after about two weeks, he could consciously sense himself getting better at the observation and analysis that this afternoon scoping required and trained.

And soon enough, Holmes told Wiggins that it had been a month, and that he had learned about as much as Holmes could teach him for the present. Wiggins had been sad to see his daily private lessons come to an end, but he was much more excited by the time Holmes finished his speech.

"And now," he'd concluded, smiling at the boy, "I think it's about time we finally met the rest of the children whom I think are up to the job. What say you?"

Wiggins's eyes had glowed with the prospect of meeting other kids who Holmes had pegged as "elite," of being part of a team and of a group, and, no less, of being the _leader._ So he had smiled up at the detective, bursting with eagerness.

"Yes please!"


	3. The Power of Two

**"The Power of Two"**

"I'm sorry, girl," the shopkeeper scoffed, only half-trying to suppress his laughter. "But you are trying to convince me that _you_ "—he gestured towards her matted brown hair, the torn dress hanging half off her body, the dirt smears on her face—"are the rightful owner of _this_?" Raising his eyebrows in pure, unconcealed skepticism, the man dangled the shining golden wristwatch in front of Pockets's face. There was something in his gaze that made Pockets think she really should be more careful. But she'd spun this story so many times, been through this routine so often, that she was confident she could pull it off.

"Yes, sir," said Pockets, playing with her hands. "It is—I mean, it _was_ my grandmother's." She allowed a jolt of raw grief to show in her eyes. "She passed on a few weeks ago, and we found—we found this." She choked a little on the words; even though not a word of the story was true, and _of course_ the watch was stolen, Pockets was a perfect actress. She hoped that, since she had only just turned thirteen and, besides that, she looked young, the pawnshop broker would be more inclined to be sympathetic and, thereby, to believe her.

"Really," the man said dryly, completely unconvinced.

Pockets arranged her face in a completely believable look of betrayal. "What, you ain't believe me?"

"No, girl, I don't really," said the man slowly, smiling succulently at Pockets and making her very uncomfortable. "Because the thing is," he went on, fingering the watch delicately, "this watch _just so happens_ to perfectly match the description of the watch Sir Alexander Henderson reported missing last week; down to the _nick_ "—he held the watch up in Pockets's face, so she could clearly see the tiny nick in one of the golden plates on the watch—"on the band."

Pockets froze. "Sir," she stammered, "I—it's my grandmother's watch, sir. I ain't know 'bout no stolen watch, but this here is mine. Honest." And she did try—really try—to look earnest. But she was frazzled—she'd been shaken by the pawnbroker's revelation—and all the devotion, all the _life_ , had drained from her performance.

The man moved from behind the counter and advanced slowly, like a cat stalking his prey, towards Pockets. "Liar," he accused, in a low, dangerous voice. Despite herself, Pockets took a step back.

Suddenly the man grabbed Pockets's arm and held it in a tight, vicelike grasp. Pockets gasped at the pain and looked up, wide-eyed, into the pawnbroker's face. He looked down at her and grinned wickedly. "The police will be here at any moment," he whispered, bending down so he was eye-to-eye with the girl. Then, in one fluid movement, he straightened, standing back up; and in that instant, just for a split-second, the grip on Pockets's arm loosened infinitesimally. And in that moment, Pockets did exactly what she did best: run, steal, escape.

With a well-practiced twisting movement, Pockets wrenched herself free of the man's grip, and in another deft motion, she had swiped Sir Henderson's watch from the broker's hands. Before he even had the chance to process that she'd gotten out of his grip—much less that she had the watch back—Pockets was clambering out of the window and shimmying down the drainpipe, down the wall and to the ground.

The minute Pockets's feet touched the street, she took off like a shot. She was running against the wind, and the gales whipped her hair around her and stung her cheeks. It was a chilly day, although it was April, and she was soon short of breath from the strenuous run. But Pockets wasn't about to slow down; she had caught the yells of the pawnbroker as she'd slid down the drainpipe, and he had told her the coppers were coming; and she was not going to wait around and see if they were planning a chase.

Pockets had shoes on her feet, but she was beginning to wonder if she would be better off without them. The shoes were so flimsy and the soles were so thin that they didn't provide much protection from the rough cobblestone street. Mostly they just flapped in the wind and disturbed her.

So, with a shrug, Pockets tore the shoes off of her feet and tossed them off to the side. Some man bellowed at her, but she ignored it and doubled her speed, the feet slapping the pavement now bare.

Pockets could hear a copper's shout now behind her, screaming for the "thief! That brown-haired girl!" to stop and turn herself over to the officers of the law. Pockets ignored them too, ducking into an alleyway between two crumbling office buildings.

Quickly, Pockets scanned the walls, and her eyes found a drainpipe. She fixed her eyes on it, pursed her lips, and nodded. The girl sprinted over, clamped her feet around the chilly metal, gripped the drainpipe with two hands in a place far above her head, and hoisted herself up.

Pockets had plenty of experience scaling drainpipes, and made relatively quick work of this particular one. She was on the roof in no time. Pockets crouched down near the edge, curling into a tight ball with her eyes peeking just above her knees.

About thirty seconds later, a group of six coppers had torn past, shouting and making hurried queries of passers-by; but they quickly hurried onwards, not bothering to look up. Pockets exhaled slightly, incredibly relieved. Still, she stayed huddled on the roof for ten more minutes; it was her rule. _Stay hidden for at least ten minutes after the danger has supposedly passed. Just in case._

Finally, once she was confident she had thrown the coppers off of her trail for good—at least that day—Pockets crawled back over to the drainpipe, touching her hip pocket once to verify that she still had Lord Henderson's wristwatch. Then, slowly and cautiously, Pockets grabbed hold of the drainpipe and started slithering her way back down again.

Pockets's plan was to stay off the main streets, tucked in alleyways and hidden behind buildings, for the rest of the night, if not the next few days. As she slithered down, she was analyzing where she would go next, where she could stay out of the cold but the police wouldn't look.

Pockets's feet touched the familiar ground, and she started picking her way at a fast-walk through the alley and out the other side. But before she could get back on the streets, suddenly, there was a voice from her right.

"The coppers have stopped their search."

Pockets froze, whirling around. Her feet tensed to run, but she was still stunned. She had what she considered to be good eyes, yet she hadn't seen any sign of human life in the alley.

Slowly, the speaker revealed themselves. It was a boy, thirteen or fourteen, perhaps. He had light brown hair and darker eyes, and though his clothes were tattered, the look on his face spoke of deep knowledge and intuition. And confidence, and pride.

Pockets step back. "One step closer and I'll run," she warned, in a low voice.

The boy only smiled. "Don't run, please, Pockets. I have something to tell you."

"How do you know my name?" Her voice was steely, cutting. He saw her body tense, ready to bolt at any moment.

"My employer told me about you," the boy said calmly. "He's also thrown the coppers off of your trail, if you care."

"And how, pray tell, did he do that?"

He smiled softly. "He made an exact replica of that watch, he did," the boy explained, pointing at the pocket where Lord Henderson's watch was stowed. Pockets's hand unconsciously went to it, and the boy's lips curled slightly in a satisfied smile.

Pockets was growing annoyed. "And how did a copy of the watch throw the coppers off?"

The boy shrugged. "He planted it in an abandoned house and told the coppers he'd seen you hide it there. Not complex, really." The boy leaned back against the alley wall. "That's not why I'm here, though. I'm here to ask you about joining my employer's business."

Pockets scoffed. "You want me to take a _job_? Ask another street wench."

The boy's smile widened and he shook his head. "Pockets," he said gently. "My employer is Sherlock Holmes, a private consulting detectives. He solves mysteries. And a few years ago, he had the idea of creating a team of children to help him, to watch the streets and eavesdrop on London's people, and report to him. Yes, there are thousands of street kids. But he watched the streets for years and evaluated the children, and in the end, he hand-picked five."

Pockets stared incredulously, without a touch of belief in her gaze. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, the boy cut her off.

"Let me prove I'm not lying, before you run away," he challenged, and Pockets's jaw dropped. He smiled slightly. "Please listen, Pockets." He exhaled before continuing. "Mr. Holmes has followed you for years; he's tracked your movements, categorized your behavior, analyzed your personality. He _knows_ about you. Tell me, Pockets," the boy said slyly, "what made you run away from home?"

Pockets took a step forward, growling. "You're just guessing," she snarled. "Half the kids on this street are runaways!"

"Yes," the boy said calmly, with the patience his employer had taught him, "but not all of them have parents who reside in Cambridge."

That stunned Pockets, and silenced her.

"Let me speak," he said, in a low but soft, unchallenging voice. "Sherlock Holmes knows all about you. When you ran away, how you came to London, why. He's told you some about you, in fact. I admire your fingers. In regards to your pickpocketing skills, of course." He grinned; Pockets scowled. "How much money have you made selling your treasures?"

"None of your concern," she said curtly. The boy laughed.

"All right. Let me start over. My name is Wiggins—that's my last name, hardly anyone but my father knows my first—and I'm thirteen. Like you." She stared at him unblinkingly. "About a month ago, Mr. Holmes found me and told me about his plan for a group of children to assist him in his mysteries. There are five kids he's looking at: you, me, a boy named Chen, and a brother and sister pair known as Tiny and Ash. I have an exceptional memory and good deductive skills; you have an incredible aptitude for pickpocketing and amazing acting talent. The others have their own talents as well. Mr. Holmes is planning to speak to Tiny and Ash tomorrow, but he wanted to meet you today; and he wanted me to talk to you first."

"What's his address?" said Pockets cautiously, watching to see if Wiggins had to make up a response.

But he didn't. "221b Baker Street," he said promptly, looking Pockets in the eye; and she could tell that he was being truthful.

However, it was another question if this Sherlock Holmes really wanted her talent, or just wanted to hurt her. So she struck a bargain. "Here's how it goes," she said. "I'll go to his house. You won't see me, but I'll be there. I can hide in shadows good, I can." She was pleased to see Wiggins nod slightly. "If it looks shady, I'll leave and I'll never trust you again," Pockets threatened. "But if you're telling me the truth—"

"I promise I am—"

"If—and _only if_ —I'm confident you're telling the truth, I'll go inside," Pockets finished, a glint in her eye, just daring Wiggins to try to argue with her.

Wiggins could have dragged her off, but it wouldn't inspire any confidence in her. He was sure by her face that she really was going to visit 221b Baker Street, and besides, he would track her all the way there. He wouldn't trail her, not all the way, but he would always know where she was. Wiggins had a knack for things like that, which had been strengthened by Holmes's lessons.

Pockets took a step back. "Don't follow me," she warned quietly.

Wiggins shook his head. "Never."

Pockets nodded slightly, the expression on her face speaking of something almost like respect. Then she stepped back, pivoted, and ran out of the alley the other way.

Pockets knew that the boy was probably going to tail her, at least a bit of the way, to make sure she was headed in the general direction of Baker Street. So she took a few quick turns that would lead her up to Marylebone, and from there to Baker, just so he wouldn't be suspicious.

Then Pockets lost herself in the crowd and threw Wiggins off her trail. As soon as she was sure she couldn't be tracked, Pockets turned, squeezed between two buildings, hopped a fence, and snuck through a few alleys until she found herself where she wanted to be. Then, with the precision that only a girl who had grown up on the streets could have, Pockets took Marylebone to Upper Montagu to York to Gloucester to Bickenhall and, finally, to Baker Street. But she was now behind the row of houses that she knew contained 221b, and snuck through the bushes so she would have a good observation spot but wouldn't be seen. By the time she settled down to watch, she was about five feet to the left of the door and ten feet below, hidden in the bushes lining the house.

A few minutes later, Wiggins sprinted up, panting slightly. He glanced around, and even from the bushes twenty feet away, Pockets could feel the sharpness of his gaze, how keen his eyes were. She felt his suspicion, too, radiating from him when he couldn't spot her.

He waited for perhaps five minutes, glancing furtively around; then, finally, his shoulders slumped slightly and he walked up the steps of 221b without Pockets.

He knocked softly, and the door was quickly opened by Holmes. He evaluated the situation quickly, then said, with a touch of amusement, "Pockets, there is no need to hide in the bushes. Nobody here is going to hurt you."

Pockets recoiled with shock, but then stood up, with her cheeks burning. Wiggins looked at her and gave a slight chuckle; Pockets glared at him.

"Hey!" he protested quickly. "I wasn't laughing at you!" Pockets ignored him and climbed out of the bushes, then up the steps, to face Mr. Holmes. He smiled at her.

"I'm glad to finally be able to meet you in person, young lady," he smiled, holding out his hand for her to shake. Nervously, Pockets grasped his hand; he shook it firmly, twice. Pockets apprehensively took a step back.

"Pockets," he said welcomingly, and Pockets nodded, albeit nervously. Holmes noticed her swallow and smiled. "I trust Wiggins has told you about me?" he said.

Pockets nodded timidly. "Y—well, a little bit, sir."

Holmes nodded. "Well then. I suppose he's told you that I'm a detective. I solve cases that stump the London force, although they always take the credit. For several of my cases, it is useful to have a set of eyes and ears on the street. Not just any eyes and ears, mind you; children's. And even then it can be only the best of the best."

Holmes looked at her with a tinge of respect coloring his gaze. "I've watched you," he said. "I've seen how you can skulk in shadows, how you can listen and watch and _evaluate_ , a precious skill to have."

Pockets didn't know what to say to that, so she remained silent. Holmes's smile just widened.

"Your pickpocketing skill is admirable, too," he said, and Pockets flushed. "It is a talent, and it does take considerable skill. Those same skills that enable you to slip a wristwatch off of a nobleman's hand."

Pockets decided then and there that she would steel herself and not let the detective know how much he was startling her. So she took a deep breath and fixed him with a gaze that managed to be neutral but confident at the same time. The detective's mouth twitched, but Wiggins looked at her and nodded slightly, impressed by the way she managed to control her face.

"You have my word for it—and Wiggins's too—that we are speaking the truth," Holmes promised. "If you'd care to come inside, I can further prove it to you."

Pockets glanced sidelong at Wiggins, who gave her an encouraging nod. Pockets fixed him with a piercing gaze that, quite plainly, said, _You'd better not be lying_ , and jerked her head once in a single curt nod. Holmes smiled and held open the door for her.

Pockets was awed by the flat when she stepped inside. Holmes's house certainly was no mansion, but it was much nicer than any house she had been inside before. Perhaps another girl would have been self-conscious about her bare feet, tattered clothes, and grime-streaked face, but not Pockets. She was just impressed.

As Mr. Holmes turned towards her, though Pockets kept her hands at her sides, she balled them into slight fists. That was not lost on the detective, but it didn't change his reaction.

"Why are you suspicious?" he said swiftly.

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are, Pockets. Why?"

Pockets froze. "Because I don't know you but you know me, and you've just invited me into your house. What if you want to poison me?"

"Pockets, look into my eyes," Holmes said. "Am I lying to you?"

Pockets took a deep breath. And then she said, "No."

"Good," Holmes said. "Now: I have a task for the two of you."

Both of them looked up expectantly.

"There is a man who lives in the general area of Dorset Square named Mr. Frederick Samuels," he said. "He comes home from work every day at five o'clock. I want you two to work as a team to find him, track him, and come back and tell me more about him."

The two both nodded slightly; then Pockets said, "What information can you give us to start with?"

"He is a tall Caucasian gentleman with graying hair who stands about six feet tall," Holmes said. "He works in a factory making bowler hats. Do with that information what you will."

"Making _bowler hats_?" Pockets repeated. "Why… why do we care?"

Wiggins looked at her. "Everything is significant," he said. "There must be something we can do with that information."

"So… making hats changes him somehow, sets him apart? Affects something about him so we can recognize him?" Pockets was skeptical.

"What could be unique to hatmaking, though?" Wiggins mused quietly, playing with his fingers.

Holmes watched the pair carefully, raising an eyebrow. He was just about to step in when Pockets said:

"Is there something used to make hats? Some unique ingredient? Like—"

" _Mercury_ ," Wiggins breathed suddenly. "Mercury—of course; I should have thought! Hatmakers use mercury to help with the process! And exposure to mercury—"

"—makes people cough," Pockets finished for him. "I know."

"It makes them go insane, too," Wiggins pointed out. "Sometimes they walk weird."

"But that only happens if he's been exposed to mercury for a really long time," Pockets pointed out.

"True, but he does have 'graying hair', so that implies that he's older," Wiggins countered, but his eyes were gleaming.

"So we're looking for a gray-haired older man with a cough who lives near Dorset Square," Pockets said, "who may or may not be walking awkwardly, and may or may not be wearing a bowler hat."

"Summed up nicely," Wiggins told her with a grin, repeating a compliment Holmes had given him many a time. The girl's eyes shone.

"Thanks," Pockets said, biting her lip to hold back a smile.

"Before you go," Holmes said suddenly to the pair, and they turned back to him as he continued: "I want you to take something from him. Last week he stole a pocket-watch with a golden chain from one of my associates. He has been carrying it around. I want you to bring that watch back to me."

Pockets's eyes gleamed. "Oh, I can do that," she breathed, exhilarated.

"Good," Holmes smiled. "There will be a shilling in it for each of you if you succeed. _Keep in mind_ ," he added quickly, as their eyes lit up, "that's twice what you will normally get, unless it's for a very important case." They nodded.

"Now go!" Holmes urged them, and the two detectives sprinted out the door and into the street.

"We should split up," Pockets hissed, standing with Wiggins by the wall. "We'll meet on Melcombe, by the south side of the square. But we should go there separately."

Wiggins nodded. "Smart." Quickly the two reviewed their individual routes, and then they took off, girl one way, boy the other.

Pockets took off in a slight jog, dodging through pedestrians. She thought back with eagerness on the shilling she'd been promised, and picked up her pace. If this was what Mr. Holmes wanted her to do, and he would pay her for it, then by golly!—Pockets had no objections.

In her mind, Pockets was already planning how she—and Wiggins—would find Mr. Samuels. Holmes had said he lived "in the general area of Dorset Square". Well, that could be any one of several streets. Pockets pondered. While that was nowhere near the size of London, it was still a large area to search.

Pockets pondered, and the solution came to her surprisingly quickly. Soon enough, she was on Melcombe, and Wiggins was with her, and she whispered her plan. And he agreed.

"Sir!" Pockets repeated for about the tenth time, tugging on a man's coatsleeve. The man turned to her, exasperated. "What?"

"Sir, have you seen my grandfather?" Pockets asked, letting her eyes fill with tears. She pressed on: "His name is Frederick Samuels, and—"

"Frederick Samuels?" The man shook her off, his eyes darting around. "Nope, never heard of him. Now get lost!" He gave Pockets a shove and he stumbled back.

Wiggins walked up to her, from where he had observed the entire exchange. "I know where he lives."

" _What_?" Pockets stared at him. "How in the world did you figure out where Samuels lives from that man saying he's never met him?"

Wiggins smiled. "The ways his eyes shifted. He looked over near Balcombe Street. Besides, did you hear him cough? He was wearing a bowler hat, too. I'm pretty sure they work in the same factory. I bet they even walked together to the intersection of Melcombe and Balcombe, and then split up."

Pockets stared at him. "Well then," she breathed. "You might just be correct."

"Come on, let's hurry," Wiggins urged. "He might be moving slowly, but he'll be almost home by this time if he walked to Balcombe with that other guy. Come on!"

And the pair sprinted off into the crowd.

This time, Wiggins and Pockets stuck together, dodging and darting in perfect synchronization. Most of the crowd was heading in the opposite direction, and Pockets and Wiggins felt like they were fish swimming against the current; but eventually they made it to the corner of Balcombe and turned quickly down the streets. Balcombe was a lot quieter, and the two suddenly felt a lot more exposed. Nobody's eyes would be, by default, drawn to them, but if they were searched for or if they acted suspicious, they would be easily seen.

"We should stick to the sides now," Pockets hissed to her companion, and Wiggins nodded slightly. Slowly the two crept to the side of the street and walked carefully along the edge of the buildings.

Wiggins jerked his head forwards. "There are houses starting at the intersection of Taunton up there," he said quietly. "Let's pick up the pace, if we can."

Gradually moving faster, the pair crept along the street and broke into a run when they reached Taunton, where a larger group was milling. Wiggins met Pockets's eyes and gave her a determined nod. "Eyes peeled," he said, businesslike, and Pockets nodded, feeling her eyes sharpen.

"Gray-haired man with a cough, possible bowler hat, possibly awkward stride," Pockets heard Wiggins mutter under his breath. She focused her gaze, peering around, her eyes flitting from person to person, before, suddenly—

" _There!"_

Wiggins's hiss broke Pockets from her focus. She glanced at him and followed his sharply-pointed finger towards an older man. His balding head was mostly obscured by a bowler hat, and he was walking slightly erratically. Every few seconds he would pause and cough into a handkerchief. Even better, once, the pair saw him stop to check the time from a gleaming pocket-watch. Grinning, Wiggins and Pockets made eye contact and nodded. They had found their man.

"So we need to learn about him," Pockets hissed, "and take that watch."

Wiggins nodded. "Let's tail. But discreetly."

Both of the two had grown up on the streets, in one form or another, and both were well-practiced in the arts of being discreet and of sneaking. Silently, they slipped behind Mr. Samuels, and tracked him, quietly, down a block and a half, watching as he stopped to cough and check the time. He was walking slightly oddly, veering here and there slightly at different points in time. At one point he stopped to pet a stray dog.

"He's kind to animals," Pockets murmured; then she caught the sight of a dirty little street girl approaching the man. "Let's see if he's kind to kids."

The pair watched as the little girl, who couldn't have been more than five, tugged on Mr. Samuels's coat and held out a hand pitifully. The man looked at her, and sympathy overtook his features. He took out a handful of coins and dropped three into the girl's hands. The child's face lit up, she thanked him profusely, and she sprinted away. The man chucked and dropped the rest of his change back into his pocket.

"Empathetic," Wiggins muttered under his breath, so only Pockets could hear. Pockets gestured slightly for him to move as Mr. Samuels kept watching. The two hopped onto his trail, walking nearly silently.

Suddenly Mr. Samuels stopped at a house, small, but clearly intended for one family. The lights were all dark. He paused on the step to take out his key, about to enter, and Pockets's heart pounded. "We need to get the watch _now_ ," she hissed.

Wiggins nodded curtly, and beckoned her over. He crouched down and pressed his back against the side of the outdoor staircase that led to Mr. Samuels's door. "He'll reach for his key in a moment," he whispered urgently. "Can you get the watch then? You'll only have a second."

"I'll only need a second," Pockets breathed, and crept up the steps behind the man, nearly insubstantial; she'd had a lot of practice sneaking around unnoticed. Just as he reached for his key, Pockets's hand darted into his left coatpocket and emerged an instant later, clasping a golden pocket-watch on a chain. She slunk down the steps again and huddled next to Wiggins.

"Put this in your pocket," she hissed, handing over the watch, a mark of how much she trusted him now. Wiggins silently took it and stowed it away; then he straightened and peered over the edge of the steps, watching as Mr. Samuels unlocked the door, put his key away, and entered, closing the door firmly behind him.

"He's a widower," Wiggins said instantly, and Pockets turned to him in disbelief.

"How the hell can you know that?"

"There weren't any lights on when he got home," Wiggins said, pleased, "meaning he lives alone. But he was wearing a wedding band. I think it's likely that his wife died in the recent cholera epidemic."

Pockets found herself nodding, agreeing with everything Wiggins had to say. "But he has a granddaughter," she mused quietly, "right?"

Now it was Wiggins's turn to be confused. "What would make you think that?"

"That guy we talked to—remember? Who we asked about Mr. Samuels? We think they worked together; he knew who Samuels was but wouldn't tell us? Well, when I said I was his granddaughter—"

"—he seemed to believe you," Wiggins finished eagerly, and Pockets huffed in annoyance. "That's genius." And now Pockets beamed with pride.

"He's a widower and he has a granddaughter," Pockets summarized. "He lives on Balcombe, and he has a friend who lives on Melcombe." She exhaled. "Not bad."

"Holmes probably has access to more resources than we do," Wiggins added, "so he can look up more about Mr. Samuels in the city's records, especially who his granddaughter is." Wiggins breathed and touched a hand to the pocket-watch nestled in his pants pocket. "And we have the watch back. Nicely done."

Now Pockets couldn't suppress her grin, and she let herself beam. "All right," she finally said. "Let's get back to Baker Street."

* * *

That night, Wiggins's father was drunk again, so the boy decided to stay out of his house and sleep on the streets. He and Pockets ended up hunkering down together in a small back alleyway that Pockets used sometimes. At about ten-thirty, they were drifting off to sleep, leaning against the walls, a shiny shilling nestled in Wiggins's pocket and Pockets's dress lining.

Across the city, Mr. Samuels was sitting at the kitchen table of 221bBaker Street, laughing jovially with the detective. Smiling, Holmes slid the golden pocket-watch back across the table towards the other man. "Thank you for being so agreeable to the terms of the exercise," he laughed, as Mr. Samuels stowed the watch back in his jacket.

"Oh, it was no problem," Mr. Samuels answered, his cough now mysteriously gone. "Sharp children, they are. I admit I didn't even notice when the girl took the watch."

"Oh, she's slick, all right," Holmes agreed. "Both of them were very proud of the fact that they discovered you are a widower."

Mr. Samuels chuckled. "For the life of me, I don't know how they figured that out."

Holmes grinned too. "Oh, don't fret, Mr. Samuels. After all, detective work is their trade; and I must admit, they are extraordinarily talented. Extraordinarily talented indeed."


	4. Two and Two Make Four

**"Two and Two Make Four"**

 _Three Years Before - December 1883_

Tiny knelt by his four-year-old sister's barely-stirring body, staring helplessly into her pale, sallow face. "Ash," he whispered, his voice tight, terrified that he might be too late. "Ash, please. Can you hear me?"

Slowly the little girl stirred, and opened her eyes: two dull brown orbs, glazed over in a way that made Tiny think she wasn't quite there. Ash whimpered softly. "I'm hungry. I'm so hungry."

"I know. I know." Tiny stroked his sister's hair worriedly. "I'm trying as hard as I can, Ash. Look, I brought you water, okay?" He held up a glass bottle with perhaps an inch of dirty water sitting in the bottom; this in itself was a prize, as the city hadn't had rain in over a week.

"Here, sit up," nine-year-old Tiny coaxed anxiously, trying to help his poor little sister into a sitting position. With a few moans and whimpers, she managed to sit still with her back against the wall of the alleyway where the siblings hid.

"Can—can I—" croaked Ash weakly, coughing and trying to choke the words out. Tiny stroked her hair, holding her tightly until she got the breath to manage to say, "Can I have the water?"

It took superhuman effort, but Tiny managed to say, "Of course, Ash!" Never mind that a drop of liquid hadn't passed his lips in over twenty-four hours and the interior of his throat felt like two sheets of coarse sandpaper rubbing roughly against each other. _Ash_ was important. And she would get the water.

He'd gotten it for her, anyways.

"Now, don't gulp it down all at once," Tiny said gently, bringing the bottle slowly to her lips. "Take a little bit, swish it around in your mouth, then swallow. That'll make it easier on your throat, and it'll moisten your mouth."

Weakly, the little girl nodded. She seemed dazed, and Tiny was still worried that she wasn't completely conscious or aware of her surroundings. Moving at a snail's pace so as to not spill any or startle the girl, Tiny brought the grimy bottle to his sister's lips and, still ever-so-slowly, tilted it.

He only let a tiny amount of water fall into his sister's mouth before retracting the bottle and quickly urging her to swish the liquid around in her mouth. But she just dully shook her head; the liquid had slid right down her throat. Ash let out a breath at the water, which tasted heavenly to her after not having a drop to drink since the day before. She stretched out a tiny, trembling arm towards the bottle that Tiny still clutched, burning with the desire, the want, the _need_ to bring it to her lips and swallow all of the liquid in one gulp.

"No, Ash," her brother whispered, in a nearly inaudible voice, when she reached for the water. "A little bit at a time."

The four-year-old, with great effort, forced her lips opened, shaking and whimpering with the effort it took. In the end, she could only choke out a single word: _"More."_

At that, Tiny's heart broke. To hear his sister speak like that— _moan_ , really, that's what it was, a moan—nearly shattered all of his willpower. But _no_. It would be so much better for her if she drank the water a little at a time. It was for her own good.

Tiny put a hand on his sister's trembling shoulder, and spoke softly. "You can have one more sip now, okay, Ash?" he murmured. "This time I want you to swish the water around in your mouth before you swallow it. Can you do that for me?"

It didn't appear that Ash had heard him; she just kept whimpering and sobbing—dry sobs, of course, because her body was so dehydrated that it would be a struggle to produce tears. "More," she moaned again.

Tiny's shoulders slumped. His sister was awfully sick. She needed a lot of things right now, and he could provide exactly none of them. She needed a full glass of water, not just a dirty swallow out of an old bottle. She needed food. She needed a warm place to sleep at night, or at least a blanket for to keep her cozy in the alleyway… if she had any chance of making it at all.

Tiny had an overactive imagination, and in times like this, it terrified him. He could imagine all too well struggling under the weight of his sister's dead body as he carried her from the alleyway, because she had caught influenza and had never gotten better.

 _No!_ , Tiny screamed internally at himself. _Don't think about that. It's not going to happen. It can't and it won't. It won't._

Worriedly, Tiny tipped the bottle towards Ash's lips again. She gulped gratefully, but again, she swallowed the water immediately. Tiny sighed; he really couldn't blame her. Gently, the nine-year-old helped his sister to lie back down on the cobblestones; she was shivering badly and dazed again. Slowly, Tiny took off his shirt, exposing his chest to the chill winds, and draped it over Ash. Teeth chattering, she curled up under his shirt, using it as a thin blanket.

Tiny sat back and sunk his head into his hands. This was all just so overwhelming. Ash had suddenly come down with her cold, not awaking one morning when he'd called her. For days she had been like this, and Tiny couldn't even go out and beg for food because he had to stay with her all of the time. Today he had managed to sneak out and scoop up a bit of water from nearly-dry puddles, but that was it.

Tiny, disheartened, glanced at his sister, who had now fallen peacefully asleep. That made Tiny smile for a moment. But then he saw that her ribs were sticking out of her stomach and her joints were bulging slightly out from the rest of her body, a clear sign of near-starvation, and he was back into the land of despair once more.

 _Oh, God, Ash… what can I do to help you?_

By sheer chance, at that moment, Tiny turned his head towards the end of the alleyway. And then he gasped.

Not fifteen feet away from him were three freshly-baked bread rolls; Tiny could still see the steam rising from them. Gasping, Tiny struggled to his feet and stumbled towards the bread, scooping them up into his hands and staring at them.

Then, suddenly, Tiny paused. There were plenty of evil criminals on the streets of London whose sole aim in life was to hurt children; and he wouldn't put it past them to poison bread. Cautiously, Tiny raised each of the rolls to his nose and sniffed.

The first two rolls just smelled like warm bread. But the third was somehow… _wrong._ Tiny couldn't place the scent, or even completely distinguish it from the smell of the bread. But it still smelled like a chemical, and so Tiny still didn't want to eat the bread.

Oh, but he _did_! If the rolls were safe, they could potentially save Ash's life. But then, if they were poison, they could kill her. Oh, he needed to know! He needed to know _so badly_!

Suddenly Tiny jumped to his feet and sprinted to the end of the alley. There were hundreds of stray dogs on London's streets, and four of them liked to hang out in one specific spot near his and Ash's "home". Breathing hard, Tiny focused on a small terrier, took aim, and pounced.

Tiny had years of practice, and he easily caught the struggling little dog in his arms, allowing himself a slight smile of success. Yes. Now he could figure out if the rolls were poison.

Carefully, Tiny ripped a medium-sized piece of bread from each of the three rolls, and fed them to the dog, one by one. The first two pieces were from the two rolls that smelled normal to Tiny, and the third was from the hypothetically-poisoned one. Tiny's hands were shaking as he fed the last piece of bread to the street dog, thinking, with slight guilt, that he might have just killed the pup; but better the pup than Ash, Tiny decided. _Better the pup than Ash._

But to Tiny's slight surprise, the pup didn't die, didn't choke or cough or spasm; didn't exhibit any symptoms of being poisoned. Tiny waited there for nearly ten minutes, holding the struggling dog, watching to see if it would collapse into death. But nothing happened. Slowly, Tiny exhaled. He was going to take his chances. If Ash didn't eat now, she would die.

So Tiny crossed back over to his sister and shook her gently. He hated to disturb her sleep—it was the first good rest she'd gotten in days—but Ash needed to eat. "I have some food for you," he whispered, when she sleepily blinked open her eyes.

At once a tiny smile flitted across the four-year-old's face. That sight warmed Tiny's heart. He quickly tore a piece of bread from the first roll and drizzled a bit of water on it to make it smoother on Ash's throat and stomach. "Here," the boy said gently, holding out the bread. "Open your mouth."

Weakly, Ash obliged, and Tiny helped her bite into the small piece of bread. For a second, she sat there, frozen, not chewing, and Tiny was afraid she'd choke. Then her teeth remembered what they had to do, and she chewed and swallowed the bread.

Tiny exhaled, watching her carefully. "Ash," he breathed after a second. "How do you feel?"

Ash moaned, but she managed to open her eyes and choke out, "Not good."

Tiny felt that like a knife in his heart, but he bit his lip and didn't allow his despair to show on his face. "Okay, Ash. That's okay. You're going to get better, all right? But I need you to eat."

"Yes," she breathed out, trembling slightly. "Food."

"Yes, Ash," Tiny confirmed, soaking another piece of bread in water. "Food indeed." He held the bread to her mouth, and gently coaxed her to open her lips. "Here it is, Ash. Right here. More bread." Gratefully, she opened her mouth and choked the food down.

Tiny could already see Ash slumping back asleep, but he shook her gently. "One more bite, Ash," he urged. "Just one more, then you can go back to sleep, okay?"

Shuddering, Ash obediently opened her mouth, and Tiny put a third small chunk of bread on her tongue. She coughed and swallowed, slumping back to the ground and falling instantly asleep.

Tiny watched her with a bit of chagrin. Slowly, he tore a medium-sized piece of bread from the roll and swallowed it himself, grateful for the substance in his stomach.

Tiny went back to examining his sleeping sister. Already she was sleeping peacefully. It would do her good to have food in her stomach. And now, for the first time in days, Tiny allowed himself to hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, his sister would be all right. Hope that she would make it through.

 _Come on, Ash…_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes crept away from the alleyway where he had left the bread for the two street children. Holmes was pleased, and proud, to see how suspicious boy was about the bread was, coming from an unknown source. To smell it like that, then feed it to a dog to check that it was safe, before gobbling it down, was quite a feat, especially when you were literally starving.

There had indeed been something mixed into all three of the bread rolls, but it wasn't poison. Far from it. There were two unusual ingredients: first, a mixture of calomel, rhubarb, and lavender, which had been proven to help treat some the symptoms of influenza; secondly, there was a chemical of Holmes's own engineering, which he had tested on animals and seemed to be a generally-effective muscle relaxant, reducing the shaking and spasms that Ash had been suffering.

Holmes had seen Tiny and Ash around, and had taken a particular interest in Ash. She could cling to the shadows, whether it was midnight or noon; and, he had noticed, she had a keen sense of hearing. She was so good at sneaking around that even he hadn't noticed her for a few weeks; and to be so good that _Sherlock Holmes_ didn't see you was quite the achievement indeed.

Once Holmes had noticed Ash, of course he had found Tiny, too. At first Tiny had stayed hidden, protective of his sister; but as he began to venture out into the city, to find food and water, and just to explore, Holmes was struck by how careful and cautious he was, and how well he analyzed risks. Someone like that could be useful, he thought, to counter Pockets's more brazen presence. (This was years before he even met Pockets for the first time, but he had already identified her as a potential member of his group of children.)

 _Tiny and Ash._ The nicknames rang in his ears. He wondered how they had come up with them. Holmes had, after some digging in orphanage records, discovered that Ash's given name was Azalea, but he had yet to discover Tiny's. Ash—Azalea—had lived at an orphanage for girls for approximately a year after her parents' deaths, but Tiny, as far as Holmes could tell, never had been in an institution. Most likely he had lived on the streets himself, before rescuing his sister; but that meant his real name hadn't been in any organization's records for Holmes to find.

Holmes didn't worry about that too much. He would find a way to figure it out, especially if he did make the decision to include Tiny and Ash in the final group of children. For now, though, he needed to monitor Ash's health to see how she was doing. Not that there was anything Holmes could do if she couldn't pull through, besides give her more calomel-rhubarb-lavender-infused bread. Influenza in the 1860s was a dangerous disease, particularly for a homeless four-year-old living on the streets of London with her nine-year-old brother.

It was out of Holmes's hands now. All he could do was watch.

* * *

Tiny woke up to a tapping on his shoulder. Groggily, he opened his eyes, peering around. His throat felt like it was on fire now; he was parched; he couldn't even find the liquid to spit. Oh, but he needed water…

"Tiny!" a voice hissed, and Tiny jerked around, because the voice was so familiar—

" _Ash!"_ She was sitting against the wall, her eyelids drooping. She was slightly dazed, it was true. But she was sitting up and there was a ghost of a smile on her face, and she was awake and talking. Stifling a cry of joy, Tiny threw his arms around his little sister and hugged with all his might.

And then, slowly, Ash wrapped her arms around her brother and hugged back. Not tightly—she was still weak and tired—but she hugged him nonetheless. And that only made Tiny hold her tighter and caress her hair, rocking her gently back and forth.

Finally, finally, Tiny released her, and she sat back against the wall with a contented look on her face, smiling lovingly at her older brother. And Tiny wanted nothing more than for her to look like that forever. But then, all too soon, her face clouded, and she looked downright scared.

"I'm still sick, aren't I?" she breathed, her face slowly growing more and more terrified.

Tiny didn't know how to answer; he hesitated slightly.

Ash didn't wait for a reply; her face crumpling, she asked another question. "Am I going to die?"

"Ash!" Tiny cried, horrified, putting a hand on her shoulder. "No!" He exhaled slowly. "Yesterday—I thought you might, Ash. But not today. Yes, you're still sick, but you're so much better, Ash. You're not going to die, okay? You're not going to die."

And as Ash looked into her brother's bright, earnest eyes, she found that she believed it. She believed it wholeheartedly.

And that, Tiny thought later, was what had made the difference. That she _thought_ she was going to live.

Because she most certainly had.

Two weeks later, Ash was back to darting in the shadows and nicking scraps of food and playing with the stray cats; back to normal life. And Tiny had never been so immensely grateful to see a four-year-old running around and always getting in the way of normal business activity, and making it hard for anyone to do anything productive or get anywhere on time.

Even though she was doing so well, Tiny barely ever let Ash out of his sight. Even if she was darting through alleyways, he would silently watch her, creep behind her, make sure that she was okay. He would hold her back from darting into crowds—more than once he had saved her life by physically preventing her from running into a slew of oncoming traffic and getting trampled by a horse's flying hooves—and force her to listen and watch and _think_ before she made instinctive decisions. Of course, she was only four years old, so that was a challenge, but she was getting better.

And Ash knew, somewhere deep in her heart, that when Tiny got mad at her for acting rashly or dangerously, he was only terrified that he might lose her. He only wanted to keep her safe. And Tiny, for his part, couldn't stay angry at his sister for long, before he wrapped her up in a tight hug and squoze the living daylights out of her until she let go of her anger too and hugged him back.

And so, amidst everything, years passed. Tiny and Ash grew up on the streets. By the time Ash was six, she had as many street smarts as the twelve-year-olds who she competed with for food. She was still impulsive, and gutsy, but those qualities, Tiny was forced to admit, had indeed gotten the pair out of a few troublesome situations. And he was always there to balance her out.

Tiny and Ash were smart, and observant, but Sherlock Holmes was incredible. They had no idea he was even watching them until the spring of 1886.

* * *

 _Presently - March 1886_

"I'm sorry," Tiny said, in a low voice, stepping up to the unfamiliar man and shielding Ash behind him, "but who are you, exactly?"

The man smiled slightly. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, Andrew, and I'm a private—"

"—private consulting detective, yes," Tiny finished. "You've made that clear. But what does that mean, and why do you want us?"

Ash tugged on her brother's shirtsleeve and hissed, "Don't be so rude!" Tiny shushed her.

Holmes smiled at the seven-year-old girl's wide eyes; then he turned to address Tiny. "It means," he explained carefully, "that I am a detective, but I don't work for the London police force or any other agency. I am a private worker, and people will bring cases to me if they are stumped. Which is quite often, frankly."

"You still haven't explained why you need us," Tiny snapped; at twelve years old, he had grown much more assertive. "And if you don't hurry up and make that clear, I'm leaving. Because I'm not in the habit of letting my little sister hang around with strange men."

Holmes nodded slightly. "I appreciate your scrutiny, Andrew. Perhaps—"

"That's _not_ my name, and if you're a detective you should know—"

"I'm sorry, Tiny," said Holmes, not coldly, but firmly, cuttingly. Tiny shut his mouth.

Holmes looked at him. "Perhaps I haven't made myself clear," he continued. "It is useful, in my line of business, to have eyes and ears on the street. Children's eyes and ears, that is; they are undeniably the most talented. And I have noticed the pair of you as exceptional thinkers, exceptional watchers and listeners. But don't just take my word for it," he said hastily, noting Tiny's raised eyebrows. "Ask the other children."

Then Holmes turned to the wall of the crumbling brick building behind him. "Wiggins? Pockets?"

At that, two of the street beggars who had been slumped there got up and removed heavy overcoats and hats. Tiny's jaw dropped as it suddenly became clear that the two weren't really beggars—nor even adults, at that. The pair was comprised of a boy and a girl, and neither could be much older than thirteen. Tiny stared at them.

"How did you do that?"

The girl shrugged. "What, blend in? It wasn't difficult. You could do the same."

Tiny bit back his skepticism and settled for a shrug. "Whatever you say. But don't think I'll trust you just because you're my age."

The children smiled at each other, which made Tiny tense. He stared challengingly at them.

"Tiny, he's telling the truth," the boy said hastily. "I'm Wiggins; this is Pockets. This man—Mr. Holmes—reached out to us a few days ago. He wants to assemble a team of kids—he's telling the truth there—and you have stood out to him as having abilities that could be exceedingly valuable."

Suddenly Ash piped up. "Me too?" she asked eagerly, peering into Wiggins's eyes, awed that she'd been seen, recognized, appreciated.

Both older children laughed, kindly. "You too," Pockets affirmed, smiling at the younger girl.

Now, of course, Ash was completely won over. Her grin only widened as she turned to Holmes, pure excitement in her gaze and in her voice. "Will I get to be a detective?"

"You will indeed," the man told her with a smile. "Now, if you'd care to come back to my house, we can sit down and talk about—"

" _No way_ ," Tiny said suddenly, stepping in front of his sister and ignoring her protests. "This is how kidnappers get you, with tricks and actors. I'm not letting my baby sister—"

"—I'm not a baby, Tiny!—"

And with that one protest, suddenly, a cacophony of voices erupted, as five people were suddenly talking over each other and arguing: Tiny trying to keep Ash safe, Ash demanding that they go with Holmes, Holmes attempting to convince them that he truly valued them like Wiggins and Pockets, Wiggins and Pockets emphasizing how much effort Holmes had taken to seek the siblings out—

" _Enough!"_ Pockets suddenly screeched, her voice cutting through the din. She turned to Tiny.

"You know it was Holmes who gave you that bread, right?" she said. "Three years ago? D'you think he would've done that if he didn't really value you?"

Tiny gaped, unable to come up with an answer for that. Slowly, he turned to Holmes.

"That was _you_? With the bread?"

" _What_ bread?" Ash interrupted impatiently; Tiny put a hand on her collar to silence her. She huffed; Tiny turned back to the detective.

Holmes smiled. "It was indeed. And I can tell you specifically what was in that bread; for now, suffice to say it was a mixture of healing herbs." He searched Tiny's face, nodding slightly when he saw a slight bit of trust start to appear on his features.

"Please come home with me," he urged. "I promise you can trust me."

Tiny hesitated, looking down at his sister. Little impulsive Ash, who got herself into far too many scrapes.

Little Ash, who had gotten a lot better at analyzing situations and making smart choices.

Tiny looked, with a slightly questioning gaze, at Wiggins and Pockets. They looked back, and Pockets nodded slightly.

So Tiny nodded too and took his sister's hand. "Okay," he exhaled, and stepped towards Holmes.

Finally he repeated it, his voice far more assertive, more confident.

"Okay."


	5. United as Five

**"United as Five"**

Nine-year-old Chen Wu had his nose pressed up against the grimy windows of the store, peering eagerly inside and feasting his eyes on the shop's display. On a small stand sat a brand-new polished silver typewriter, announcing its presence for the world to see. And though Chen had most definitely heard of typewriters before, he'd never actually had the opportunity to see one with his own eyes.

"Hey, you!" Suddenly the store's door was thrust open, and Chen heard the tiny tinkle of its bell. From inside, a man dressed in what passed as nice clothes stormed out and advanced towards the boy. Startled, Chen took a step back.

"I—I just—"

"I don't want to hear it, boy!" the man hollered, stepping closer towards Chen, who, despite himself, kept retreating. "I'm sick and tired of people like _you_ hanging around the shop all the time! Get lost!"

Chen's mouth fell open in astonishment, and, stunned, he shook his head. "No—it's—sir, I haven't done anything!" he protested. "I just wanted to see—"

But the man just scoffed. "You haven't done anything? Please." The man kept stepping towards the nine-year-old, forcing him to back up into a corner, where the typewriter shop met another building.

"I just wanted to see how it worked!" Chen cried. "I thought I could—"

But, far too quickly for Chen to see, the man's hand shot out and landed a stinging blow on the boy's cheek. Chen cried out and clapped a hand to his burning cheek, his cry a mixture of pain and complete shock. He searched the man's eyes helplessly, his own gaze filled with betrayed confusion. _What did I do wrong?_

The man just scoffed. "Get away from here," he said dangerously, in a low voice, and Chen flinched but didn't run.

"I'm not doing anything!" he protested again, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. "I swear, I'm not—"

Suddenly the man's hands were tight around Chen's collar, and he let out a sudden, involuntary gasp. With a sudden thrust, the man forced Chen backwards, throwing him, hard, into the brick wall. Another slap landed on Chen's cheek, but this time the boy didn't cry out; he gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut to prevent himself from letting even a gasp escape his lips.

Suddenly the man was crouching down and looking Chen dead in the eye. "Run," he ordered in a whisper, a single, hissed syllable.

And Chen ran.

He didn't even know _why_ he was running; he wasn't really afraid of that shopkeeper or his slaps. And Chen desperately, desperately wanted to examine the typewriters and puzzle out how they worked. But there was no way, really, that he could keep fighting, or even possibly win this battle.

That wasn't to say that Chen didn't intend to come back to the store. He'd come back that night, of course, when the store was closed. With a candle stub, if he could manage to steal one and light it. Maybe he'd even be able to pick the store's lock and get inside, and—would he dare?— _touch_ the typewriter.

At that, Chen's mind started racing along with his body, as he hurtled down a thin alley away from the stationary store. Maybe, if he got inside, he could even find time to dismantle one of the typewriters. The store opened at six o'clock in the morning, Chen knew, so if he wanted to allot himself a good three hours to experiment…

Chen rounded the corner and turned up the pathway to his house; or, at least, the building where he slept perhaps half of the time, when he wasn't out until midnight sneaking around the city and examining every mechanical object that came under his nose. His parents, while both still alive, were some of the most irresponsible so-called caregivers in London. They never hit their son—something Chen was eternally grateful for—but they barely cared about him. He could stay out all night long, and the next morning, they wouldn't even question it. But for some reason, if they left clothes or dirty dishes lying around the house, they'd expect them to be cleaned and put away by either Chen or Mei.

Ah, yes; then there was the matter of Chen's older sister, sixteen-year-old Mei. Despite the facts that they were siblings, and she technically lived in the same house as he did, Chen hadn't spoken more than a few words to her in years. Like Chen, Mei was in-and-out of her parents' house, often staying out all night and trapesing around London breaking into pawnshops and stealing what the shopkeepers were careless enough to leave out on the unlocked countertops. Chen and Mei knew each other, to be certain, but they only really saw each other in passing. The last thing Mei had said to her little brother had been, "I broke your window, by the way. Accidentally." Chen had rolled his eyes and left the house in a huff.

So yes, that was Mei. Chen thought he should probably care about her more, but he didn't. It was unusual if he saw her as much as three times a week.

Now, Chen let himself in through the back door— _always_ unlocked; if only the robbers knew—and slumped down at the kitchen table. A pair of wine glasses sat disregarded on the counter, with the remnants of red wine in the bottom. Chen sighed. He'd wash them in a bit.

Chen ran a slow hand through his matted black hair, his heartbeat slowly returning to normal after his run through London's streets. After a few minutes of catching his breath and letting his leg muscles relax, he got up, washed and dried the wineglasses and put them away, and climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

Chen slept in his bedroom about half of the time, the other half preferring to remain on the streets. His bedroom, however, was also where he stored the majority of his inventions; most of them were made of scrap metal, and they would rust quickly if they were left out in London's harsh rain and winds.

Currently, Chen's project was a pair of Self-Shining Shoes. The way Chen figured it, London's rich folks would pay anything to have a pair of shoes that shined themselves, instead of having to stop on the street and pay a whole shilling or maybe even more for a good shoe-shining. So of course Chen's invention would sell well. (To be fair, he'd thought that about at least three or four of his other products, and none had ever gone on the market. But Chen was eternally convinced that _this_ invention would be the one that got him money.)

The mechanics behind the shoes were simple, but the execution wasn't quite as easy. There was a tiny lever attached to the bottom sole of the shoe, and when the shoe's owner took a step, pressure was applied, forcing the lever to move. This, in turn, raised a tiny metal bar the size of a matchstick, which forced yet another lever downwards, which made a spring expand and contract; that spring's movement made a scrap of cloth rub along the shoe, essentially shining it. Complex, but, Chen thought, efficient.

Chen did indeed have a prototype, although, admittedly, it was just one shoe. And it was an old sneaker, not even a gentleman's shoe that would require shining in the first place. And it looked messy: the entire contraption, besides the sneaker itself, was made of metal, all of which Chen had found somewhere on the streets. And it only worked when it wanted to. But it filled Chen with pride nonetheless.

Today, he was going to build another shoe, Chen decided. The first one was sloppy, and clunky, but it worked. If Chen was going to sell his invention to a big manufacturing company, he needed at least two working shoes: one matching pair.

Chen had built a pair of levers and found a scrap of metal that would do; just that morning, he had found a discarded box with three metal springs discarded in a trash can outside of a factory, and he had taken them eagerly. So now he had enough materials to make a second shoe.

Chen set to work instantly. The room was silent, to be sure, but it was a _pregnant_ silence, full of buzzing energy and whirring mental gears. If anybody had stepped into Chen's bedroom at that moment in time, they would have been taken aback by the sheer electric enthusiasm and passion that filled the air.

Quickly the boy worked, attaching the first lever to the sole and connecting what he called his "metal matchstick" to it. That in itself was a process that involved generous amounts of white glue, and by the time Chen was done, the carpet on his floor was soaked with wet but quickly-drying adhesive. Chen shrugged. _He_ , for one, didn't care.

By that time, it was nearly six o'clock. Chen knew his parents were in their bedroom—and of what they were doing, he had no doubt—so it seemed to be up to him, yet again, to get dinner for himself. Sighing, Chen put the Self-Shining Shoes away under his bed and snuck out of his room, before descending the stairs and ducking out of the house.

It was June, and, despite the season, it had been a gloomy day and was now an even gloomier dusk. It was misty, and the dull streetlights shone like beacons through the foggy, wet cloud that had descended upon the city. Chen grit his teeth; it was this chilly, dark weather that was his least favorite. It was just physically _uncomfortable_.

The one upside, though, was that it made it that much easier to hide in the shadows and not be seen. That was especially helpful if, like Chen was at the moment, you were trying to steal food and get away with it. Chen didn't _like_ to steal—he still found it immoral and just plain wrong—but better steal than starve, was Chen's logic. Sometimes, you had to do what you had to do.

So now Chen was crouching in the back doorway of a bakery, his nose catching the tantalizing scent of freshly-baked bread wafting through the air. Chen's dark eyes peered around the corner, watching as the shopkeepers closed up for the night. The boy paused only a moment; this was a routine theft, for him and for hundreds of other street children. Just wait until the shop owner's back was turned, and then—

 _Now!_ A quick dart into the shop, emerging behind the counter; grab a few rolls of whatever you can get your hands on; then fly out of the door and walk down the street like you've got nothing to hide. It was common knowledge for all of London's homeless: if you look suspicious, you're going to be suspected.

By the time that Chen finally settled down next to an eight-year-old girl and her mother who were eating their own dinner on the street, it was almost seven o'clock. The stationary store closed promptly at seven, but Chen wanted to wait at least an hour until he broke in. By eight, it would be dark enough, and the shopkeepers would be long gone.

Hopefully.

Any way you looked at it, though, that meant Chen had more than an hour to kill. Chen sighed. London's streets could be _boring_ sometimes. Chen slumped down against the wall and just stared at the rush of oncoming traffic, both pedestrian and carriage. Nothing _exciting_ happened, especially not at night.

That hour was dull. The boy couldn't deny that. Thousands of faces passed by, all completely unrecognizable. Chen's thoughts drifted listlessly to his inventions a few times, but he didn't have the mental stamina to put too much thought into them at the moment.

At last, though—at last—the church bells were chiming eight o'clock, and Chen was getting up and making his way, in a roundabout direction in case anyone was watching him, to the store with the typewriters.

Chen skulked around to the back door of the shop, which was in a filthy back alley. Hey, at least that way nobody could see him breaking—no, _sneaking_ —in. That was a plus.

Taking a deep breath, Chen surveyed the building. The lock on the door looked incredibly insecure; it could, for sure, be picked by a lady's hairpin. Chen made sure to always have one of those in his pocket; they were surprisingly helpful, for lock-picking and for poking into spaces that a hand couldn't fit in.

There was nothing to suggest that today would be any different from the numerous other times Chen had snuck into stores to get a look around. Absolutely nothing. As far as he could see, there was nobody hiding in the shadows (although, to be fair, he didn't search too hard) and the building's lights were all off. It was deserted; or so the boy thought.

But just as he was standing on the top step and inserting the hairpin into the lock, a hand grabbed him from behind, the unseen person's arm firmly around him from his right shoulder to his left hip, holding him tightly. Chen would have let out a startled cry if, at the same moment, a hand hadn't clapped over his mouth, stifling any sound he might have made. Chen's body froze; then, suddenly, he began kicking and punching and biting at the hand over his lips.

Suddenly there was a hissed order from the person holding him. "Stop—Chen, _stop!_ Chen!" Chen went still with shock at the sound of his voice. As soon as he stopped struggling, the man loosened his grip slightly, though not letting the boy go. "Please calm down, Chen," the man said, in a soft undertone. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Chen exhaled deeply through his nose, although he could feel himself shaking. Ever so slightly, he relaxed his body, although he still held himself firmly, ready to bolt.

The man seemed to sense Chen's eagerness to run, and he kept his arm tightly locked around Chen's body. But then he said softly: "I want to talk to you, Chen." He paused slightly before offering, "I'll take my hand off of your mouth if you promise me that you won't scream, okay?"

Chen didn't react for a few moments; then, he gave a short, jerked nod.

The man must have trusted him, taken him at his word, because the hand came off of Chen's mouth immediately. Chen quickly took a shaky breath in through his mouth, trying to make himself breathe more naturally. But due to the fact that there was still an unseen man behind him, keeping the boy firmly in his clutches, Chen wasn't getting very far in the whole "calming down" process.

"Chen—" the man said again, slowly, but Chen cut him off.

Chen's voice was shaking, but he forced out: "How do you know my name?"

There was a slight pause. "Chen, I—"

But then the boy interrupted him again. "And how did you know I'd be here?"

The man let out an exhalation tinged with a laugh. "I know you, Chen Wu," he said, and Chen could hear the smile in his voice. "You're a very smart child, but you're also extremely inquisitive. And you're willing to go to great lengths to explore something. Even if that means breaking into a shop at night to investigate a typewriter."

At those words, Chen tried, once again, to twist around and see the man's face. Because those words had _stunned_ him. Chen didn't have any friends who he would really consider close, and his parents and Mei didn't know much about his interests and cared even less; and the fact that somebody had read Chen so well and anticipated his next move so accurately shocked the boy.

Chen couldn't quite twist around to see the man's face, though. And so he asked yet another question, his voice trembling right along with his body.

"Who are you?"

The man standing behind him smiled and opened his mouth, and in that moment, he told Chen Wu everything he'd told the four other children who he had already met. And at the end of it, Chen was no less than stunned.

Then, and only then, did Sherlock Holmes release the boy. He smiled kindly at the nine-year-old as Chen took in the detective's features, examining him closely, more in awe than in suspicion now. And then Holmes bent down and murmured in the boy's ear. Chen listened, nodded, and said something quietly back.

Only then did Chen finally walk from the alley, hand-in-hand with the detective, and barely even realizing that he'd never gotten a chance to actually investigate the precious typewriter.

It was just after eight-thirty when Holmes and Chen made their way up the front steps of 221 Baker Street. The sky was an inky indigo by now and it was nearly pitch dark, but up on the second floor of the building, several rooms were shining with brightly-lit oil lamps shining through the windows. Chen heard Holmes chuckle gently at the sight.

"Well," the detective said, unlocking the door and gesturing for the boy to enter, "head on in." With an excited grin creeping onto his face, Chen ducked inside the building. Holmes ushered the boy up the stairs and into the flat he shared with Watson.

Chen gasped when he saw the living room, which was currently occupied by four other street children, wearing clothes at least as scraggly and torn as his own. Three of the children, who all looked to be around thirteen years old, were engaged in a fast-paced and high-energy yet nearly silent game of Old Maid. The reason for the silence became obvious in a moment as Chen's eyes found the fourth child, a small, caramel-haired girl, who was fast asleep in a plush armchair and snoring lightly.

Holmes laughed quietly when he saw Chen watching the girl. "That's Ash," he informed the boy softly; "she's seven, and it's much past her bedtime." Chen giggled.

At the sound of the voices, the three other children turned around, and their faces lit up at the sight of the detectives. Instantly there was a cacophony of sound, most of which seemed to be the children asking Holmes eagerly if they could eat now that the detective was back. At the sound, Ash groaned and shifted. Holmes, laughing, held up his hands for silence, and the children quieted immediately.

"There is a seven-year-old girl asleep ten feet away from you," he whispered into the silence. "I would hope you'd remain as quiet as you were when you were playing cards." The children grinned guiltily, not looking a touch abashed. They could all tell—and Chen could too—that the detective wasn't truly frustrated with them.

"Now," Holmes said, no longer whispering, but still speaking softly, "yes, you can eat now. _We_ ," he emphasized, gesturing at himself and Chen, as well as the other children, "are going to eat with you. And during that time, you will introduce yourself to Chen. You're all going to be seeing a lot of each other in the next few months."

Quieter now, the children smiled and nodded, with waves and hushed, "Hi, Chen"s directed to the boy standing in front of them. Chen smiled back, a little nervously; he trusted Holmes and he was glad to meet the other children, but he still didn't really know them and was a touch wary of their presence.

Then the brown-haired girl, the only girl of the three children facing Chen, looked at Holmes and said, "Can we _please_ get food now? We've been waiting _forever_."

Holmes laughed. "All right, Pockets," he said, smiling, "but let Chen go first." The girl—had Holmes called her _Pockets_?—rolled her eyes but laughed good-naturedly.

Now Chen looked at Holmes uncertainly, not quite sure where said food was. Noting the boy's look of confusion, the detective, still smiling, led Chen through the living room and into a kitchen. On the stovetop sat a cooking tray holding breaded chicken, next to a pot filled with mashed potatoes.

Holmes sighed and turned to the children. "I told you three to take the chicken out of the oven when it was done, and to _put it in a bowl_." He paused. "You three are all exceedingly smart; I'd have thought you'd remember a simple request like that one."

The children smiled sheepishly, and, again, it was the girl who spoke. "We were playing cards," she explained. "We took the chicken out, though!"

One of the boys, who was nearly as tall as Holmes, added, guiltily, "We just… forgot about the bowl."

Holmes rolled his eyes. "Clearly." But then he chuckled and took five plates from a cabinet, handing one to Chen and keeping one for himself before giving the rest to the girl to distribute. "We'll survive."

The girl passed out the rest of the plates quickly, and Holmes gestured for Chen to get food and then move to the table. A bit uncertainly, Chen put two pieces of chicken on his plate next to a spoonful of mashed potatoes before walking to the table, where five napkins, five sets of silverware, and five water glasses sat.

Chen sat silently until the others arrived at the table; once the other children sat down, they immediately started in on their food. The boy who had spoken before, the tall one, hissed to Chen, "Dig in!" Slightly nervously, Chen nodded, and took a bite of the chicken, which he had to admit was exquisite.

Finally, Holmes took a seat, swallowed a bite of chicken, and spoke. "As you all know, this is Chen," he said, gesturing to the boy, who smiled, albeit with some reservation. "I told him a little bit about Ash, but why don't you three introduce yourselves?"

The children looked at each other, and one of them nodded. The tall boy, who had told Chen to eat, was sitting next to Chen, and spoke first. "I—well, my name is Tiny," the boy said. Registering the look on Chen's face, he laughed. "Irony. I—I'm twelve years old, and I'm Ash's older sister." Unsure of what to say next, he shrugged and gestured towards the girl.

The girl nodded and smiled at Chen. "I'm Pockets," she said, "and I'm thirteen." She didn't add anything else, and the third child spoke.

"I'm Wiggins," he introduced himself, "and I'll be fourteen in less than six weeks."

There was a slight silence. Chen nodded at Wiggins's introduction but didn't say anything; the others already seemed to know who he was. But then Wiggins asked, "You're ten, right?"

Chen ruefully shook his head. "Not yet. Not for a few months."

The others nodded sympathetically; then Pockets said, "And Holmes told us you're an inventor, right?"

Chen blushed slightly and smiled. "I—yes, I am. I invent a lot of things. They're not always easy to build, because I just find materials on the streets, but I have lots of products."

Wiggins, Pockets, and Tiny all smiled. "It sounds like you're very talented," Tiny told Chen, which made the younger boy smile, almost giddily, and thank him.

"Why don't you tell him what your talents are?" Holmes prompted gently, and the three older children instantly launched into eager explanations. Before long, Chen had learned about Pockets's incredible pickpocketing skills and the recent fiasco of Alexander Henderson's watch; Wiggins's polished deductive skills and his mental catalog of several hundred Londoners to date; and Tiny's book smarts and intellectual knowledge and his caution and suspicion that contributed to his survival on London's streets. He was told, too, more about Ash, and her eagerness and her ability to see how a puzzle fit together instinctively that the older children tended to overthink. And when they asked, Chen told them about his Self-Shining Shoes and several of his other inventions. By the time they had finally exhausted the conversation topic of themselves, it was almost ten o'clock.

"I have to get going," Wiggins finally said reluctantly, standing and taking his plate to the sink. "I have… places to be."

Chen looked at him curiously—where on earth could Wiggins have to be at ten o'clock on a Tuesday night?—but Holmes just nodded understandingly. Pockets quickly followed suit, commenting that she, too, needed to get somewhere, and, with thanks to Holmes and goodbyes to Tiny and Chen, the two, with almost surprising speed, ducked out of the apartment. Tiny and Chen were left alone with the detective, with Ash sleeping peacefully in the other room.

"Ash and I should really leave too," Tiny said, scrubbing the plates Wiggins and Pockets had left on the counter. "We have someplace safe to sleep."

Holmes took the plates Tiny passed to him, dried them, and put them back in the cabinets as he spoke. "What, that alley?" The detective shook his head. "Stay here for tonight. I don't believe your sister has any intention of moving."

Tiny laughed. "I suppose that's true," he admitted. "It's really okay if we sleep here? Just this once?"

"Of course!" Holmes assured him. "Chen's sleeping here too, for tonight." And Chen nodded.

A quarter-hour later, Chen was sleeping on a pull-out couch that had turned into a bed, while Tiny was curled up on a sofa next to the armchair where his little sister slept. The minute Chen had hit the bed, he had collapsed into a dreamless sleep. It was late, and it had been a busy day; Chen didn't even have the energy to process it all. Tiny, too, slept peacefully.

Sherlock Holmes just stood there watching the children sleep for a minute, before heading back to his own bedroom and crawling into bed himself. Today, June 29, 1886, he had spoken, for the first time, to three of the members of his team of children. And they had enjoyed each other's company over dinner.

Holmes exhaled gently into his pillow. This was going to work out. Oh, yes, this was going to work out very well indeed.


End file.
